


Through Your Eyes

by FunnyLittleOwl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock is actually a good parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunnyLittleOwl/pseuds/FunnyLittleOwl
Summary: There's a little bee flying around 221B when it's quiet at night. There's no one else to witness the tender scene that follows.





	

Early evenings were quiet affairs these days. 

There used to be a time when you would avoid this very window for many, many reasons. The most important one being, of course, the crippling fear of being taken hostage by the excessively tall man who went by the name of Sherlock. 

He displayed the most unusual fascination for all the brothers and sisters who unknowingly happened to fly by his flat - and it would be days before anyone would see them again in the hive, now working around strangely aware of their limited existence as decidedly small insects.  

There was also, you pondered, as you went in and out of the window for the fifth time, the fear of blowing up or being trapped in a fire, as it seemed too frequent around this area, for reasons unsure.

You went in, so this story could happen.

If you'd happen to be a little bee unafraid of explosive environments, much unlike this one we're talking about, who was now suspiciously encircling a violin in the couch, you might have been able to spot a scene like this on your routes back to Mrs Turner's garden next door.

John, the small blond, as it was, would be the one making tea, as he did. If you were a brave little bee, you would remember when these walls, very much like yourself, would be buzzing with excitement and the unspoken threat of danger. Sherlock would be all over the living room, pacing, jumping, stepping on piles of paper kept in the most curious places, talking himself to absolution.

It would be Judgement Day for a few countless minutes, and they would be gone, hats and all, just like that, leaving you to your own business around those sugary biscuits left on the table - untouched. 

But you were not a brave little bee.

Instead, what you saw, other bees could tell you it was the new status quo. You don't see any difference at first: John was making tea in the kitchen. Sherlock was perching on his armchair, in deep concentration with a book.

That's where the scene diverges, though. There was a small weight resting on his lap this time, a pink little thing. Other bees could tell you that stopped being new after a while and that the book in hands would vary according to the baby's humor and daily interest, among other aggravations, like its predisposition for destruction that particular moment by tearing up pages and biting.

Today, surprisingly, the child seemed to be in a very good mood, as they were leaning over a distinctly expensive hard cover book about the animal kingdom. Later, you would be glad that was how you got to meet her - the tiny human who was able to tame the impossible man.

He read to her, as she watched his hands flaunt around with explanations she was perhaps three years too young to grasp, about the secrets of cold-blooded reptiles and the funny habits of migrating birds - when suddenly, she put her puny hand over a turning page, comparing the size of her fingers to the English Bulldog's skeleton. 

"That is the dog's paw, Rosamund," Sherlock clarified, contented by her curiosity. "It's not exactly like our own hands in function, what with the lack of the evolutionary supremacy of opposing thumbs and all, but they find use for it anyway," he finished, as he closed the book with a satisfied smile. "Did you understand today's lesson?" 

Instead of cooing at him and giggling like you would learn she always did, today she did something anyone could proclaim with absolute certainty was entirely unexpected.

Rosie reached out to Sherlock's hand and put hers over it, marvelled by her gentle, funny giant who always talked so much more than her "Da".

He stood still for a moment, before covering her miniature hands with his own. "That is correct, Rosamund. Our hands are comparable to animals' paws. Can you say it to me? Paw?" He tried, staring at her with anticipation.

"Pa," she said, looking up at Sherlock.

Your wings stopped fluttering for half a second. If Sherlock had wings, his would have stopped, too. But he had proven once that he didn't have any, so he just looked around worried John might have listened.

"Rosie, no, that is not..."

"Pa," she repeated, positive, then sighed contently and went to sleep right there, next to his beating chest.

"Okay," he conceded. "If you say so."

It was a quiet night at 221B. You decided to stick around for a bit.

Drawn by the smell of something sweet, you buzzed your way into the kitchen to find John. He had finally finished his tea. He flickered you away from his cup, flailing about, when something caught his eye. 

_Oh, so he's finally seen it._ Rosie rested on Sherlock's lap. They were both sound asleep.

You sat on the border again, trying him. He paid you no attention this time. No, he was too enraptured by the sight of his impossible man and the child sleeping in his arms so peacefully. He carried you back inside the cup into the living room with a hesitant stride, a silver spoon in his other hand.

John, then, did something that was not unexpected, you decided. It was actually something he did a lot, it seemed. He knelt down, then kissed his daughter in the forehead. Her brows wriggled for a bit, then softened.

He did the unexpected thing after.

Hiding yourself between the skull's eyes, you were able to spot the exact moment John's lips met Sherlock's soft curls and then lingered for a second, gently, before letting go.

"Hi," the impossible man said, blinking himself awake. There was a small (but unmistakable) smile on his face. You knew that changed something, but how could you be sure? You were only a bee.

If John was surprised, he didn't show it. That couldn't be said for other emotions, though, that invaded his features with an exquisite, but hardly requested, glow. He slowly smiled back hoping it would convey all that he was feeling. _Please let him know_ , someone in the room thought in a plea. It either could have been you, or the two men, or the skull - maybe all of you at once.

(It was the skull, you later found out. He was very observant, mind you.)

 "Hi," John added, almost as an afterthought. "You're good at this, you know." 

"Good at what, exactly?" probed Sherlock, too tired for deductions when he was so comfortable like this.

"Taking care of her," he pointed out, taking the book away from his loosened grasp.

"That is only because you are so good at taking care of us," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, as he lazily intertwined John's fingers with his free hand. You might have thought that was a bold move, but he had no second intentions by doing so. He felt like holding John's had, so he did.

It was what it was.

"Well, that still doesn't make it easier on you," John said, decided to ignore the undergoing shift in their relationship while the conversation lasted. "You never wanted any of this. This life, it's... I understand it must be hard. I am glad you are here, anyway."

"You know," Sherlock started, like was preparing himself to confess a very important, secret truth. "I was actually thinking of getting a dog."

"A dog?"

"What do you think of Gladstone?"

"It's... certainly the most preposterous name you could ever think of."

"I'm glad that's settled, then."

"Sherlock," John apprehended, trying to ease himself from the man's grip, "please don't change the..."

"John, you really are insufferably clueless sometimes" he interrupted, calmly taking their hands against his heart. "I am right where I want to be. Understood?"

Rosie murmured something in her sleep, startling the two men. It could have been babble, but it also could have been everything. Either way, they understood.

You didn't, though. It didn't matter. Happy with your discoveries, you flew away to your next adventure.

Don't you wish you were a little bee so you'd know what goes down in 221B Baker Street when it's quiet at night? Thank goodness, in this story, you are.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You know there is one thing we all agree on about The Final Problem. This is how I envision their happy ending. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback would be very much appreciated. See you next time.


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